Please Don't Send Me Roses
by AliceStaresAtStars
Summary: At least half the world gets roses from Arthur Kirkland. At least half the world has feelings for him. At least half the world never acts on them. WorldXEngland fic. Semi-historical, as in mentions events. Please vote on who he will end up with! Vote by review or PM. Uploaded Sundays. Canonverse. Read and review, it means a lot. T but rating may go up. ASAS xx
1. 1: The Axis

**So this is actually going to be a short-ish (5 or so chapters) EngWorld fic. Basically review to decide who he ends up with in the end (I'm not going to do them all individually pursuing him; this is as in, he already likes someone, and the last chapter reveals who it is and announces their relationship to the world) out of: The Axis (including Romano, Prussia and Austria), the Allies (excluding Canada because I can't see mapletea as any more than platonic, and USUK because it's cliché), Denmark, Norway, Portugal, Switzerland, Lichtenstein, Scotland, Wales and Ireland. If you vote in the next week you can vote for other characters to like him.**

**Please vote, I'm only doing it because I really don't know who to put him with! **

**Thanks!**

**Love you, byee!**

**ASAS xxx**

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**..:.:.:.][.:.:.:..**_  
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**_Please Don't Send Me Roses: _**_The Axis_

**Rating: **T for the minute_  
_

**Genre: **Just romance, with a little modern history in there. GCSE History is good for _something_, after all

**Pairings: **England X The World-ish. Missed a few countries out or it would go on forever.

**WARNINGS: **None except implications and language. Maybe some angst.

..:.:.:.][.:.:.:..

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**..:.:.:.]The Axis[.:.:.:..**

Nobody knew quite how it had started, particularly not the man himself. It had started with one nation, and then another until an entirely unstoppable snowball had formed.

Every year, at some point, most of Europe, all of North America and most of Asia received a rose from one Arthur Kirkland, perhaps better known as the personification of England and World Representative of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (although he objected to being the latter – after all, why can't they represent their own bloody countries? It might've been all he had left of his empire but that didn't mean he wanted them to dump their paperwork on him).

Most of them had at first scoffed, incredulous that someone who seemed such a cold and heartless Empire could be capable of such a simple gesture of kindness. A rose from the notoriously cold personification was surely rare…

As one, believing themselves to be unique, the receptors of the innocent flower came to almost cherish the gift. After all, how special they must be for England – England! – to give them a flower. He must struggle to give one to _me, _let alone anyone else. So the thought process went.

* * *

Germany was in fact one of the first to receive a rose, before Arthur's closer friends and many of his colonies, for example.

It happened a little before he formed his friendship with Japan. He had asked for an alliance; he had been nervous and the bored and slightly annoyed look on Germany's face had completely flustered him. His unsubtle shoving of flowers and harried and half-arsed explanation had not gone down well. England found himself faced with a slammed door and a bruised ego. At first he had been mortified at his embarrassingly awkward conduct, which had briefly turned to anger at Germany's shortness with him. However this returned to humiliation when he remembered he hadn't so much as written to request a meeting or gone about things in a vaguely proper way. Of course he would be surprised at England's sudden appearance and odd behaviour, which could easily lead to him being a bit short. It made England want to bang his head against a wall repeatedly.

So England, desperately wanting to make up for his embarrassment, had posted the German a rose of the Gloria Dei variety (having agonised over which type: red was out – too romantic, and he wanted to avoid any connection with France (although the Frenchman's adoption of his flower annoyed him to no end – it was his national flower, for fuck's sake!). White had the same romantic connotations, ditto pink, so he basically had this and yellow left.) Germany had been a little surprised – well, more than a little. England was not known to be the kindliest of nations, and his pride was legendary. On top of that, Germany knew he had been a little rude when England showed up requesting an alliance. He couldn't work up the ability to apologise, and his guilt skyrocketed when he found the innocent-looking rose on his doorstep.

But despite the guilt the rose, and the note with it ('Dear Germany, Sorry for acting a bit weird with the flowers and what-not, old chap. My boss has been rather insistent about me finding someone to be allied with, so I was little desperate. Anyway, long story short, my conduct just wasn't on, and I apologise profusely. Arthur') he couldn't help but feel a little… special?

_It must have been hard for him to do that._

Germany didn't want the United Kingdom's alliance.

_It really is a lovely flower. I would have expected a bottle of rum and, 'Rum is better than beer, kraut!' from him._

That didn't mean Ludwig couldn't accept Arthur's rose.

_What a bizarre man. A fearsome empire, quaking in his boots about asking _me_ for an alliance. How cute._

A brief image flashed in his mind. His green eyes, staring at Ludwig – not Germany, Ludwig – with adoration.

_What?! God, I really need to get laid. He's a man!_

He turned to go inside and put the rose in water.

_It's a nice thought, and nothing but. I'll put it in water and then when it dries, I'll just forget it._

Imaginary green eyes burned in his mind's eye.

He only received three roses over the course of the next few years. The first one, one after the treaty of Versailles ('Because I don't agree with it as a person, even if as a country I am obliged to agree with it. It was utterly unfair on you.') And then at the end of the war. ('I'm sorry for everything.') Every time Ludwig was forced to accept that maybe Arthur Kirkland wasn't as cold as his reputation would have him.

He then began sending Ludwig roses yearly. It was a purely diplomatic thing, Ludwig told himself. An attempt to get relationships back to what they should be for trade, etc. (The truth was Arthur couldn't stand to be truly hated by anybody after his empire began to collapse. An unfortunate coincidence of events, really.) But the little notes warmed his disillusioned heart; he had lost his brother, (England had voted in the affirmative, but a note on a rose said, 'I didn't want to do that to your brother. He was a dear friend of mine before all this.' Ludwig felt more than a little jealous at that. He felt a little perturbed, actually. He had already known Arthur had been rather close to his brother, but it didn't bother him before) and his leader but he had gained Arthur's roses. It wasn't like they saved him, but once a year, he could feel a little better.

The notes mostly said 'Dear Ludwig (at some point Germany had changed to Ludwig, but he barely noticed) I hope you are well. Good luck with Italy. I hope we can remain on cordial terms, as people if not as nations. Best wishes, Arthur.' They were brief, but surely he must be the only one to receive them…

Soon he looked forward to them, and once or twice sent something back. Arthur always showed gratitude, and Ludwig always glowed under his attention.

This left him in a modern meeting, desperately trying not to yell at France to just leave Arthur alone. And desperately trying to avoid Arthur's burning jade eyes. He wouldn't want to give anything away, after all.

* * *

Next was Japan. Japan actually accepted England's proposal for an alliance, so England thought it would probably be a good idea to give him some measure of his gratitude. This is how Japan came to find a pale pink rose on the step in front of his door the day after the alliance was officiated. The note read, "Dear Japan-san (I believe it is polite in your culture to suffix names of people you have just met with san?). Thank you very much for becoming my ally, and my friend, I hope. The rose is the same colour as your sakura and my national flower, so it symbolises our alliance. I apologise, I tend towards the corny, sometimes. Best Wishes, England."

Japan reacted a little more confusedly than Germany did. A foreign man, whom he barely knew, sending him flowers? Japan almost blushed. Almost. Was this some kind of western tradition? He did not recall America ever giving him any flowers when he forced him out of isolation. Especially one like this with such a powerful message. _He must really be very serious about this alliance. _He didn't know why but the thought of the messy-haired blonde gentleman caring about him made butterflies materialise in his stomach. A brief image flashed in his mind. His green eyes, staring at Kiku – not Japan, Kiku – with adoration. He flushed a little, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

**Arthur-san is a friend and nothing more. Dear lord, take your mind from the gutter, Kiku.**

**I suppose this is what I get for being in isolation for so long**_._

He stared at the rose for a while and raised it to his nose.

**It really smells rather pleasant. I shall put it in water. **

He pauses for a second before turning and going into the house.

**It would be a shame to waste such a thoughtful gift after all.**

England sent Japan a pale pink rose every year on the anniversaryof their alliance, whether he could see the other member or not. Kiku continually ignored that his heart beat a little faster when the intense emerald gaze was fixed on him. He ignored the twisting in his stomach whenever Arthur mentioned anyone else. However, Kiku did treasure the roses, yet cursed Arthur for gifting him with something so ephemeral. One cannot keep a dead rose forever, after all.

There was a brief break in the roses from when Japan basically walked over the League of Nations, and through the whole of World War Two. It was understandable; however Kiku felt an unfathomable surge of loneliness at the loss of them. Of Arthur.

It was bad enough when their private alliance got divided between America and France as well.

But this was pure pain. Surely he didn't… love Arthur?

* * *

He had assumed that the roses were over. So he was more surprised when, his body ravaged and cancerous from radiation, a mere week after Nagasaki, a nurse brought him a pale pink rose with a note that read: 'Because this hatred has gone far enough. Arthur.' From then on the roses on their old alliance anniversary kept coming, and Arthur and Kiku, if not Britain and Japan, were friends again.

Kiku wanted more.

So now, more than sixty years since the roses started coming again, here Kiku was, silently studying Arthur in meetings, frantically searching yaoi doujins at home for any help or advice in making Arthur his.

Italy first received a rose when he changed sides in 1915, during World War One. The note red, 'Dear Italy, I'm really not as scary as you think I am. Most people I know wouldn't call me scary at all in fact. Thank you very much for changing sides, we need all the help we can get! Yellow roses seemed appropriate as you seem to be of a sunny disposition. I hope you and I can get over the whole fear barrier thing. England or Arthur.'

His thoughts were a little more simple although no less oblivious than Japan or Germany. England's so nice, sending me a flower! Maybe he isn't as scary as I thought! Maybe we can make pasta together! This was obviously before he found out about Arthur's cooking ability.

There was of course a whole break during the lead up to World War Two and throughout it. However a few years after the end, as with Germany, Italy found a rose – yellow again – on his doorstep with a note on a string tied to the stem as usual. However there was also a photo. 'Dear Italy, I hope we can forgive each other after the war. I am sorry for capturing you, although war is was, and I hope you are not terrified. Do you remember when I was your prisoner and how I eventually got out? (God it took me forever. I am now irrationally terrified of going to Italy in case I get captured by a non-existent Germany again.) Howard the spy turned me into an Italian! I have attached a picture I had taken for you to laugh at. I look incredibly daft. Oh well. Don't look so terrifying now, do I? From Arthur.'

Feliciano stared at the photo.

Arthur looks… really hot_._ Feliciano couldn't believe Arthur looked so good as an Italian.

And he was really nice to me when we were allies… And he treated me nicely when he captured me; he even tried to get a good chef when I complained about his food…

_He's so nice, he even sends me flowers. I can't believe big brother France is so mean to him._

Feliciano had of course heard of Arthur's pirate and empire days, but …people can change, can't they? Especially nations, they change all the time.

He decided he liked Arthur. A slightly different image flashed through his head. Arthur's green eyes alight with mirth at the slight smudges of pasta sauce on Feliciano's mouth and nose. He leans over the table on the opposite side of which he is sitting and licks the sauce – he cuts the image off.

Why would Arthur do that?He giggled uneasily and scratched the back of his head. Oh well, I'll just make some pasta to take my mind off of things.

The yellow roses became a yearly thing as well, usually around the time the war ended or on Italy's birthday (20th September, anniversary of the Capture of Rome) with a little friendly note that made Arthur seem a lot less terrifying than England did. He still felt nervous approaching him, but not in the same way. It was less cold sweats and more butterflies, these days…

So he kept his dreams of Arthur a secret, contenting himself with sneaking glances at him from across the conference hall. All the while imagining the day he would unleash his Italian charm on the unruly-haired blonde and watch Arthur fall at his feet. It kept him happy at night, at least.

The three former allies all had one thought in common. They were all at once impatient with waiting to do _something_ and too nervous of rejection to _do_ something.

_**Please don't send me roses if I don't mean anything to you.**_

..:.:.:.]**End Chapter One**[.:.:.:..


	2. 2: France and America

**To recap: France, Russia, China, Germany, Italy, Japan, Prussia, Austria, Spain, Romano, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Denmark, Norway, Portugal, India, Switzerland, Belgium, Lichtenstein. (I have added a few, including two het couples. Hmm, wonder how many votes they're gonna get...)**

**NOT America (although I have written him in for the eventual angst. Ah, angst.)**

**NOT Canada, Australia or NZ. Because I can't help but think of him as their dad (Curse you, Scandinavia and the World.) Ditto America but the whole independence thing kind of changed all that and the pairing's too popular to ignore.**

**Vote and Read and Review!**

**ASAS xxx**

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**..:.:.:.][.:.:.:..  
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**_Please Don't Send Me Roses: _**_France and America_

**Rating: **T for the minute_  
_

**Genre: **Just romance, with a little modern history in there. GCSE History is good for _something_, after all

**Pairings: **England X The World-ish. Missed a few countries out or it would go on forever.

**WARNINGS: **None except implications and language. Maybe some angst.

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**..:.:.:.]France and America[.:.:.:..**

America had never convinced England to come to his birthday parties. Yet here sat a white rose, without as much as a delivery note. It must be hand delivered. But Arthur wasn't in the country. But the note was in England's handwriting.

There are some things best left alone, America supposed.

Like Alfred loving Arthur. That was a thing best left alone.

Just for example.

After the Revolution Alfred went through so many years of not seeing Arthur at all. The USA and the UK re-established trade relationships eventually but Arthur avoided Alfred like the plague. He saw his former mentor not once in the hundred-and-something years that passed between the American Revolution, except for a glimpse once when he was on a ship. Haunted by memories of Arthur looking small and weak and alone, white britches stained with mud as he openly wept on the battlefield, Alfred expected to see a gaunt figure, some broken little thing.

Oh how wrong he was. Alfred knew that Arthur's empire hadn't even gotten close to its peak when he declared independence. He knew that Arthur had gone on to conquer a third of the world without him.

But when he glimpsed _that man_ from his ship as it passed by Arthur's his breath caught.

His intense jade eyes burned. His hair swayed in the breeze. He stood at the bow of a boat as if posing for a portrait. His uniform was immaculate, and golden buttons and epaulettes blazed in the sunlight.

He was an _Empire. _And he was _Beautiful._

Now, don't get him wrong. When he was independent he felt so, so happy. And he'd done it for his people and him, because it was fair, and right. He did it because he wanted to stand alone and be great in his own right, and because 'colony ' = 'bitch' in nation terms. He didn't do it, as one of Japan's 'doujinshi' he'd seen suggested (not that he was into that stuff, god no), because he wanted Arthur to see him as an equal rather than a brother so he could love him or something.

He almost wished it could have been for that reason because then he would have superior claim to Arthur over anyone else.

He did it because he didn't need Arthur, in any way, shape, or form.

But Arthur didn't need him either. And it pissed him off.

No alliances offered, no meetings arranged, not so much as a hand of friendship or forgiveness.

Arthur just cut Alfred out of his life. A constant from the beginning – even when he wasn't there, he was coming back – gone. Just like that.

(Of course Alfred didn't discover until later that Arthur drank himself into a miserable omni-hateful stupor every fourth of July to try and forget what happened. He was somewhat gratified by this.)

In a slightly sadistic way, Alfred wanted Arthur to fall without him, crumble without Alfred by his side. He wanted Arthur to come to him, and beg. But it didn't happen, not soon enough anyway. And when it did it happened in a way so completely opposite to how the sadistic side of pictured it.

It was World War One, 1917. England was desperate. Russia had left the war with his revolution and the Triple Alliance had never been stronger. Arthur sent Francis to ask Alfred to join the war. He couldn't face him like this, scarred and scared and pathetic.

He eventually stopped sending Francis. America wasn't going to come, he wasn't going to help, and the Entente Cordiale (as it could only be called without Russia) was going to lose. And God, they tried so hard. Matthew, Feliciano when he changed sides, Francis, Dylan, Alasdair, him. Ivan tried when he was still fighting.

However in 1918, Germany's allies buckled and he was fighting alone. America joined them. Suddenly things were looking up for them. And on the 11th November, Germany agreed to surrender.

When Alfred came to the trenches, he wanted to see England grateful and broken. He found a nation, battered but standing, the fires of war blazing in his eyes. Truly in this field of death Arthur was in his natural habitat. To him comfort was unnatural (no wonder he liked those stiff suits.)He was grateful, yes, but not in a grovelling way, at all. He stood tall and fought twice as hard, he even managed to decisively block Germany's food supplies with his navy and starve the Germans into surrendering.

After the first time Alfred saw him Arthur avoided him like the plague – still! – instead sending messengers with letters and updates on how things were at the front. Being nations they would stay at the front for months at a time as opposed to the customary ten or so days, yet whenever Alfred tried to be posted to the trench Arthur was in it would appear that he had just moved trenches, or been sent home on leave, or to the hospital on doctor duty. Alfred even walked from his trench to the trench where Arthur was posted only to find when he got there that Arthur had left not an hour ago. Alfred doubted that Sherlock guy he'd heard of could find Arthur when he didn't want to be found.

The Germans surrendered. And on the 11th November, 1918, Alfred was hand delivered a white rose with a note attached. 'Dear Alfred, Thank you. I think this has gone on long enough. I extend to you the hand of friendship, and I hope that we can at long last become friends. Best Wishes, Arthur Kirkland.' (Alfred noted the lack of 'again' after 'friends'.)

From then on Alfred would receive a white rose on Remembrance Day every year with a variety of notes attached. In the years between the war and the USA's isolation Alfred and Arthur met quite regularly for tea or coffee. Even after the isolation, they would meet once a year if they could. Arthur helped nurse Alfred when he was sick after the Wall Street crash. It was the only time Arthur ever gave Alfred the rose himself.

When he finally joined the Allied force Alfred grew closer and closer to his former caretaker. He liked the idea that England and Arthur needed him. It fulfilled him, it made him feel special, needed. All this time, he just wanted to be needed by Arthur. In World War Two, Alfred decided he would be Arthur's hero, so Arthur would always need him. America would protect England. Alfred would protect Arthur.

He saw Arthur in his garden, once, out of uniform with just a rolled up white shirt and black trousers on. His mind went full circle when he realised how hot Arthur looked like that, and at the same time realised how madly head over heels he was for Arthur.

He had never met Arthur as a pirate so when Arthur dressed as a punk and started yelling about 'the establishment' and 'bloody capitalist oppressors' and 'the fucking man' whoever he was (it seemed to be America a lot of the time), it blew his mind. The tight jeans, the studs and the ripped clothes, the fucking _tongue piercing_ sent Alfred's mind way down into the gutter. Arthur looked five years younger, and alive, in a way that Alfred never saw off the battlefield. So of course he had to mercilessly rip the piss out of him to avoid giving away exactly how badly he wanted to fuck him. Alfred could be astute when he wanted to.

He could never move on. The roses tore at his heart every year, especially when he stopped sending them on Remembrance or V-day favouring the fourth of July, as did Arthur's continued absence from his birthday party. He needed Arthur to want him now; just _needing _him wasn't enough. He had to come to him by choice. For now Alfred would just spend as much time with him as possible and enjoy the cute pout he had when he got flustered. For now.

So here he was, in the twenty-first century, desperately trying not to deck France for hitting on his closest ally. Desperately trying not to hit on the man himself.

If Alfred was the hero why couldn't he get the 'girl'? He supposed if the 'girl' was grumpy, over a thousand years older than you, and a man, the normal rules didn't apply.

Or maybe sometimes heroes just don't get their happy ending.

* * *

France looked out of his door to his doorstep expectantly. Once again, a deep red rose sat there innocently with neither hide nor hair of its owner in sight. France had no idea how he did it; every fucking year he got up at three in the morning waiting to catch little _Angleterre _in the act, maybe convince him to come in for a glass of wine or two, hope one thing led to another…

But he never succeeded. He never caught a glimpse of the massive eyebrows; never saw so much as a flash of blonde hair. His azure eyes never locked on forest green. He even stayed up all night once to try and catch the grumpy Englishman in his simple random act of kindness. All night he sat, with coffee after coffee brought by his disgruntled housemaid. He did not turn away from the doorstep all night, except once, for all of a second. He turned to thank his housemaid for the sixth coffee at about four in the morning. He turned back and there, planted in front of his eyes like a bad practical joke, was England's rose complete with note. He interrogated his housekeeper once she had gotten some sleep but she swore she had seen nothing and heard nothing.

France remained baffled.

It was April 8th and once again England had managed to surreptitiously gift him a rose without in anyway leaving a trace to say he'd been here. Not a footprint or something dropped from a pocket. In his efforts to catch the man he had even laid sand down on the drive to find a footprint of some sort. Nada. Of course, it was entirely possible that he had simply swept the sandy footprints away but something told France that wasn't the case.

_For God's sake, he's supposed to be a good spy, not a fucking ninja…_

France didn't know how England could send him such a romantic gesture (a red rose? On the anniversary of their longest-lasting alliance? In nation terms, that's basically a proposition, come on!) and then yell at him or just plain ignore him in meetings. He had an advantage over the many others he knew wanted to rob him of his _Angleterre, _his very heart, in that he was Arthur's go-to drunk fuck. In those brief moments of inebriated intimacy post-unplanned-orgasm, in the minute or so of afterglow before one or both of them fell asleep, they would lie clinging to the other like they were each other's own personal lifeline. And sometimes Francis would desperately fight to stay awake just to watch how Arthur cuddled into him. Arthur would act cold but Francis knew better than anyone else how much Arthur wanted warmth and to be hugged and whispered sweet words. He loved to be cherished because as a child he never was. They shared a hotel at a world meeting once or twice and Francis noted adoringly that he hugged the pillow in his sleep.

He was always gone in the morning.

The sad truth of the matter was that Francis had always loved Arthur, since he first clapped eyes on him. Perhaps he was the first, although with Wales, Ireland and Scotland the line was so fine between love and hate that who knew when they all crossed it? Perchance they had always loved him but had fucked-up ways of showing it. He had well and truly fallen for him. Fallen for the man a million miles away and just next door. With the gold, fluffy hair, dewy grassy green eyes and pale skin. With the ridiculous eyebrows and pouty mouth. With the fake coldness and the secret warmth.

_His name is Arthur. If you see him, could you tell him that I think he might've accidentally picked up my heart when I dropped it and could I have it back please? Life is becoming rather difficult without it._

He remembered when he first saw the bright green eyes staring frightened and confused from the forest at the welcoming smile Francis gave him when he visited the rainy little island but twenty-odd miles across the water from his at the shortest distance.

_That small rabbit-boy…_

Once when Arthur was drunk he told Francis that when he first met him he thought Francis was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen.

_Born into hate and war…_

He knew Arthur lived on the run when he was little, constantly trying to avoid his brothers' nasty and sometimes violent pranks and 'war training'. Francis would often protect him and take him to a little hut he had on the side of cliff. Keep him warm and dry in front of the fire. Get him to eat a little cooked meat of some sort, rather than the berries, leaves and even tree bark that formed his usual diet. The boy always acted suspicious but would cuddle up to Francis in his sleep, and Francis knew he was more comfortable than whichever tree branch Arthur would've been sleeping on that night.

_Ignored by everyone but me…_

The first time and last time Arthur really came to trust him was just a little before the Norman conquest of England. They were walking and talking together – Arthur walked, Francis talked – and Arthur slipped on a rock and accidentally dipped a foot up to the ankle into the river. Francis chuckled a little at the boy's infuriated expression as he glared fearsomely at the wetness as though it would make it go away. Frustrated Arthur pushed Francis into the river only to come tumbling after when Francis grabbed his wrist at the last minute.

_Always on the run from teasing brothers who seemed to hate him, always assuming it would be better if he didn't exist…_

They were soaked and laughing, Arthur a little hesitantly at first but then in a full blown fit of giggles, Francis alternating between a tenor giggle and a hearty baritone chuckle as he was entering the slightly awkward teenage phase where the body can't quite decide if it's an adult or a child. Later on they sat by the fire and ate the few berries they'd salvaged from the aftermath of the fall. Miraculously it didn't rain and Arthur fell asleep against the warmth of Francis's chest. Francis followed soon after, curling up in front of the flame with Arthur in his arms after dumping more logs on the slightly dying fire to extend it as long as possible.

_I was his light. _I _was his hero. I protected him from his brothers. We were so close, mon petit lapin._

Then came the Norman conquest. Arthur never looked at him the same way after a narrow escape from some soldiers whom Francis immediately slaughtered despite the pain it caused him to kill his own people. He felt his people burn and starve and die under _Guillaume le Bâtard _and had ever since waged war after war on France up 'til the Entente, and of course France had reciprocated. They teamed up briefly in the Crusades and had lots of angry hate sex (which was to begin a habit that lasted many human lifetimes). But apart from that it was pretty much hate and war.

_What happened to us?_

The only time they came close to what they had pre-Normans was the first anniversary of V-Day when they danced gently to 'La Vie en Rose' in a deserted street in Marseilles. The world was moving on from Empires and they were accepting that they might get left behind. They were back to clinging to each other like they were lifelines. Neither was drunk. France felt his heart might burst when he gently brushed his lips against England's forehead and he didn't object.

_I will always love you. Even if you never look at me again, I will always love you._

It was April 8th. Francis sat on the step cradling a red rose gently in his hands. The note read: 'To my dearest enemy.'

..:.:.:.]**End Chapter Two**[.:.:.:..


	3. 3: Prussia

**Originally this was going to have Prussia and Austria in it. But there seemed to be so much to write about Prussia (just little situations and vignettes I imagined) so Austria will be up at some point on Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday depending on my motivation. May feature Highwayman!England, which should be fun.**

**The chapters seem to be getting longer and longer, as is always the case with me. This was supposed to be a one-shot. Oh well. If I redid it I would try an balance it out but meh.**

**Implied one-sided PruHun, just a little, but it fades pretty quickly if you're not into that sort of thing.**

**Oh, and I'm getting rid of the het couples (i.e. Belgium and Lichtenstein) because they're probably not going to be popular and this'll take fucking ages to write if I don't narrow it down a little.**

**Read and review, please! And vote, especially if you know you're going to vote for one of the people I've already written.**

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**..:.:.:.][.:.:.:..  
**

**_Please Don't Send Me Roses: _**_Prussia_

**Rating: **T for the minute_  
_

**Genre: **Just romance, with a little modern history in there. GCSE History is good for _something_, after all

**Pairings: **England X The World-ish. Missed a few countries out or it would go on forever.

**WARNINGS: **None except implications and language. Maybe some angst.

..:.:.:.][.:.:.:..

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**..:.:.:.]**_Prussia_**[.:.:.:..**

Gilbert could pinpoint to the day, in fact, to the moment, when he began loving Arthur. He had always had something of a fascination with the island nation: he had in the past had very little to do with him; he had never invaded that far west, the furthest his territories expanded to being Alsace-Lorraine briefly from the end of the Franco-Prussian was until after the First World War. However, he had heard from Francis when they were little about the lonely little Kingdom across the sea to the west, where it always rained and a small yet violent boy with no-one in the world tried to show them all that he could handle himself, thanks very much. As the Teutonic order he reacted indifferently but secretly could not ignore the fact that the bells in his head were ringing because this boy sounded very much like himself.

Much later on he would sit and listen to Antonio complain suspiciously loudly about the rather dashing green-eyed pirate who spoke with a cut-glass accent and delighted in stealing Spanish gold. And Gilbert, who had rather a splendid empire going on at the time, contemplated both their pasts and where they ended up. He concluded, _Well, little island man, looks like we both did pretty awesomely for ourselves in the end. You even avoided having you vital regions seized by the awesome me._

As Arthur came to hold a third of the world in the palm of his hand Gilbert's fascination grew; such a very small nation having such great power and territory was unheard of since Rome. He would occasionally ask Francis about him when they were still on speaking terms. (There was a hundred-and-twenty year gap from the end of the Franco-Prussian War – a French loss – to when the Berlin wall came down where they exchanged not a word. Preceding that had been a hundred years or so of slow-burn enmity where the only words between them were insults. They were only very slowly regaining the mutual trust they used to have over the past twenty years or so.) He would always ask, jokingly, "Perhaps you could do him the honour of introducing him to the awesome me?" He would always note with some interest the brief flash of anger, and was that possessiveness?, that would twist his features for a fraction of a second before the blonde would laugh like a stabbed horse and say something along the lines of "Mon cher, he is so very superstitious, is _mon lapin_. With your eyes he would think you were a vampire or something similarly malevolent and non-existent." He never tried to visit England, fearing Francis's reactions if he did would not be pleasant. There was always a hint of possessiveness, whether intentional or not Prussia drew a blank, in the way Francis spoke of Arthur. Gilbert always found this laughable.

The War of the Austrian Succession came, and from across the battlefield he saw a wild-green-eyed demon so intent on destroying his dearest enemy he would fight in a war that gained him nothing purely because of the chances of destroying him. He also saw himself: a feral teenager with too much power and no idea what to do with it, concerned with personal slights and personal gains, with no concept of the future, only which battle to fight next. The last remains of innocence long vanquished from a child born into war and hardship, alive on the battlefield if anywhere at all. They even both had one long term enemy whom they had been fighting as long as they could pick up a sword. _Fitting that we should meet on the opposite sides of this theatre of bloodshed, we children of war. The awesome me will crush you exquisitely, my friend._

He laughed when he hear that his fellow wilderness boy had deserted his ally in the middle of a war purely to get back at Francis. This boy positively screamed arrogance and the pleasure of security at last after a life made of question marks; now so powerful he would dare to risk war with a former ally because of a personal vendetta. He would dare to leave an entire war because it simply wasn't interesting to him. Gilbert's throat swelled with delighted chuckles at the sound of Austria cursing Arthur to hell. Truly, Arthur was a man after his own heart.

Overall, the feelings were always a little strong to be purely admiration. But the exact build-up of events which lead to Gilbert falling head-over-heels for Arthur only really culminated on that day.

18th June, 1815. The battle was finally won, the two children of war at last subduing the overgrown monster the French empire had become. Francis had been carted off long ago by his soldiers and the two victors stood giddy with victory and high on the endorphins keeping the pain from their injuries at bay. The air smelt of gun smoke and tasted of death. Red and green eyes glowed triumphantly as they surveyed the chaos that they left in the wake of their victory. Arthur looked awed, and as a matter of fact so did he. They both knew they had a mutual appreciation of the utter beauty of chaos and destruction; the childish satisfaction of blowing away in an instant what must have taken a lifetime to create.

Ash fluttered in the air and nested in Arthur's eyelashes like snowflakes. He had a cut tracing the line of cheekbone trickling blood down the left of his face and some of his face was blackened with gunpowder and dirt. If he noticed he did nothing about it. His torn, blood red coat was now blood-stained, and his hat abandoned a while back revealing messy and at some points singed hair. The sky in the background was sunset red and orange, the clouds lavender grey. The shades matched the burnt blacks, grey ash and red blood that coloured the battlefield all over the place. And Arthur seemed to fit the scene as if painted in. _If I am a vampire then he is a demon._ Was what came into Gilbert's head.

The exact moment Gilbert fell for Arthur was when the green-eyed man just about finished enjoying the damage. He suddenly took Gilbert's hand in his and said the three words that captured the almost-albino's heart. Spoken softly, almost inaudibly, eyes still firmly fixed on the chaotic wasteland the battle left. Perhaps they were inappropriate; to Gilbert they were the most beautiful three words in the world.

A reverential whisper of, "We did this."

Gilbert couldn't help but whisper back, "It's awesome."

Arthur tittered a little (Gilbert's heart skipped a beat) and replied, "For once your use of that bloody word is appropriate." Gilbert replied, still murmuring, "That 'bloody' you use so much wouldn't exactly be ill-fitting either, eyebrows." Arthur seemed to be in too good humour to scowl. Gilbert was happy that they seemed to have established a rapport. He was also happy that he was in love with someone so awesome. _Not like Elizabeta, who used to be awesome before she fell for that prissy aristocrat. The awesome me could never fall for someone lame._

He was even happier at Arthur's next remark. "Do you want to go somewhere and fuck? I haven't had sex in days and you're not an awful person." He snickered slightly at Arthur's reasons for sex. But then he had spent a large portion of time around Francis.

He looked around pointedly. "What, here?" He asked slightly apprehensively – as much as he found this beautiful, he didn't thing battlefields made particularly comfortable beds.

"No, I know a place." Gilbert ran as fast as Arthur could drag him, so they got there pretty quickly.

'There' turned out to be the church in the abandoned nearby village. Gilbert faltered a little. "It's a church…"

What Arthur did next completely sealed the deal for Gilbert. He grinned a wicked grin and answered, "Yep. Problem?"

Gilbert returned the grin tenfold. "After all, who is God to tell us what to do?"

Arthur seemed very pleased with that answer and smirked back, "Precisely."

Gilbert was one of the first people to receive a rose from Arthur, and indeed one of the few to have it hand delivered by the man himself. "As a small thank-you." The smile he wore this time was warm rather than smug or mocking and Gilbert just felt his heart do backflips.

Right up until the start of WWI Gilbert would receive a rose to match his eyes on 18th June every year. He never saw anyone deliver it, as every recipient of the flower.

Of course, they stopped during the war. Gilbert missed them dreadfully, although he was occasionally rewarded with a glimpse of green eyes or blonde, scruffy hair from the other side of No Man's Land.

Except for one night: the Christmas truce of 1914. Entirely by coincidence, of course, they met in the middle of No Man's Land, while the sound of Silent Night in English and German drifted back and forth across the trenches. Arthur looked weary and thin, although his eyes still blazed inhumanly brightly. He was in his natural habitat, of course. War.

They had a brief conversation about how things were going, both lying through their teeth of course. Arthur then sighed a little sadly. An abrupt topic change from the light-hearted lies of seconds before occurred.

"How bright your eyes burn. I know mine do the same. My battalion remark often on how happy I look in this theatre of death." Gilbert just frowns, not exactly knowing where Arthur is going with it. "We truly are creatures of destruction, are we not, Gilbert?" His then-ally nods in reply. Just nods.

"Our time is drawing to a close. My empire is fading. I am being succeeded by my ex-colony. The very existence of Germany means your time is running out." Gilbert looks like he might object before he realises that would be lying. To himself.

"We are only at home on the battlefield. But people don't want that anymore." At this Gilbert at last responds. "_Nein_, they don't. But there will always be war."

"But not our war. War is not fought for territory, any longer. War is fought for peace. Empires like us cannot exist in such an environment. Who knows, by the end of this, war may be fought with machines, not men." Gilbert grins uneasily.

"You giving away your battle plans, eyebrows?"

"If I had war machines, do you think I would just keep them sitting unused?" Like their first proper conversation Arthur's eyes are fixed on the battlefield.

Gilbert feels a shiver go down his spine when Arthur takes his hand, rough from reloading a gun numerous times, in his own and loosely gestures to the destruction that faces them.

He again whispers, "We did this." But his eyes shine with sadness. Gilbert feels a wave of shock hit him when he realises Arthur is tired of this, and cynical, and no longer the feral teenager he was. A second wave knocks him for six as he discovers that so is he. They are not wild, anymore. The modern world has tamed them both.

They headed back to Arthur's trench with the intent to fuck. They barely got past the first kiss before they ended up just in each other's arms on the fire step, holding each other. At five minutes to midnight Arthur pressed a rose into Gilbert's hand. "For the past." Gilbert nodded solemnly before walking back to his trench. The truce was over. A bullet whizzed past his ear. Gilbert instinctively knew it was Arthur.

He raised a hand without looking back. Neither of them ever mentioned the incident again.

He didn't get another rose until Hitler dissolved Prussia. It was red and thornless and the note bore the boast: 'I told you so.' Gilbert scowled; they might've been almost enemies by then but he didn't have to rub it in. Although the next day Gilbert turned the paper over and it said, 'I'm so sorry. If it's any consolation I know how you feel.' After the official dissolution in 1947, another rose. 'I was forced to agree. I hope you know I never wanted to vote yes. I've lost my empire, too. Your thread has been cut and I have had to watch mine unravel.' Gilbert was so angry and full of hate and confusion he burnt it. And regretted it a second later.

_The roses are all I have left of what we used to have._

He didn't get another rose until the wall fell, although he always checked. The ache in his heart when Ivan wouldn't let him so much as call Arthur to moan about old times killed him, more than any hard labour in Russia's house ever could. (He swore once he saw Ivan bending over the fireplace where something that looked suspiciously like a stem was burning. But he brushed it off. Ivan had no reason to burn something like that; it was both diplomatically and literally harmless.)

_Even if it wasn't much, it was surely something._

That year, on that day, as he watched the wall dissembled brick by brick with a mixture of incredulity and bitterness, something spiny and sharp and thin was pressed into his palm amongst the jostle of the crowd. A hand closed around his, trapping whatever it was (he didn't dare to hope), in his fist. He glanced around to see who had done it, but if it was Arthur then he had melted into the crowd.

_In the end neither of us had the last laugh._

He was yet to work up the nerve to check if it was him that day.

_Let me tell you a secret. Maybe, just maybe, I don't think I'm that awesome really._

The rose's note, a little crumpled in his hand, read 'Welcome back.' It also said, in small print at the bottom, underneath a set of digits that looked more than a little like a phone number it said: 'Just in case you need someone to pay for your drink and moan at. I hear German beer is good, hint hint.' Gilbert (now just Gilbert) rolled his eyes but smiled a little, and resolved to take him up on that offer.

_While I'm at it, here's another. Maybe you're the only one who really listens._

They became fast friends, discovering that neither of them had really changed that much after all. Arthur was pissed off that Gilbert missed his punk phase, so made an effort to change into punk gear whenever they went drinking. Gilbert was the only one who ever heard Arthur play the trumpet, in Arthur's attic (the only room he really used apart from his study/library in his overlarge house; all the other rooms held memories ready to assault him, even in just their emptiness), practically paralytic. His fingers lazily pressed the buttons. The tune was slow and sounded sad, although Gilbert thought it might have been a love song at some point. Gilbert thought it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard.

_If I could just take your hand like you have done before with me. But I can't. And I will cover it up, my love._

He never could confess. He got close, in the quiet moments when they sat in the attic without any alcohol, and just. Talked. But a voice always said to him, _You didn't take him when you were a nation, and why would he want you _now_? You're not even a state anymore. _So he hid his love behind his back, and tried to content himself with being this close to Arthur. Often he would be the one to carry Arthur home, if Francis didn't get him first. But he never did anything except put him to bed, maybe a kiss to the forehead if he was feeling bold. He appreciated just seeing the more vulnerable side to Arthur, the warmth behind the war child. A hand squeezed his heart when he saw Arthur hug the pillow, and he just wanted to hug him and protect him.

_I can't protect him. I'm not a nation._

For now this was close enough.

_One day I will confess. I love him too much to just let him go. I can't let him be another Liz._

But the pain in his heart was becoming unbearable, as was the way his stomach would twist when others tried to put moves on him.

_If only you needed me like I need you._

..:.:.:.]**End Chapter Three**[.:.:.:..


	4. 4: Austria

******This is long. Sorry.**

**Should I have poll to vote with? Would that be easier?**

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**..:.:.:.][.:.:.:..  
**

**_Please Don't Send Me Roses:_** _Austria_

**Rating: **T for the minute

**Genre: **Just romance, with a little modern history in there. GCSE History is good for _something_, after all

**Pairings: **England X The World-ish. Missed a few countries out or it would go on forever.

**WARNINGS: **None except implications and language. Maybe some angst.

**..:.:.:.][.:.:.:..**

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..:.:.:.]**Austria**[.:.:.:..

Roderich had married a lot of people in his time. His knowledge of the laws of marriage, the conventions, the in-and-outs, the unspoken rules was both flawless and unquestionable by anyone's standards.

However it was quite the opposite when it came to love. He felt so empty. No one he had ever loved had stuck around, no one he was in a relationship with caused him anything but pain.

Roderich was haunted by green eyes.

Olive eyes, for a long time, to be precise. Cheerful olive eyes that smiled so much laughter lines already pointed at them, although not a single other line blemished this man's perfect face. They seemed to scream 'Look at these eyes! Are they not the most beautiful eyes you have ever seen? Are they not alight with good-humoured laughter all the time?' Their marriage, and supposedly their love, cracked and broke along with the House of Hapsburg. His warm olive eyes turned to others, away from Roderich's striking violets. He immediately missed the warmth of his Iberian lover. His country was too cold alone. His bed, sometime his very country, was too cold alone.

The most painful time, surely, was when their marriage existed but their love did not. The only time he got to see the calm olive eyes was on the other side of the battlefield. His eyes did not warm him. They burned with the hatred of someone whose love turned into the slow accumulation of hatred. Roderich's immediate reaction was: How dare he oppose Maria Theresa? She was a perfectly legitimate queen; this was all just the Prussian _arschloch's _way of claiming his vital regions. Well, if Spain wanted to be Prussia's lackey then that was his choice. And Italy was his! Alright, it may have been a little cruel to fob Spain off with the angry older brother, so he could keep the admittedly considerably more obedient North Italy, but that was not an excuse to invade.

It was the small things that did for their passionate union. His assertion of dominance over little North Italy. Spain's increasing colonial power rendering him territory hungry. The slow cooling of their love for each other, every 'I love you' just a little further apart, cheerfulness turning to 'fine-have-it-your-way' passive-aggression on Spain's part, Roderich's tentative infatuation and unspoken love turning to distance and snobbish coldness to avoid the hurt. At the fact that this was all they were. A union of convenience, now. It all spiralled out of his control.

Tiny arguments about nothing meant Spain decamped to his place for days at a time.

_What exactly is the deal with tomatoes anyway?  
I suppose I'll see you in couple of days then._

_No, I can't visit your house right now, I will burn hopelessly. Could we go in winter?  
Oh, you'd prefer to sleep in the guest room._

_What do you mean you need more space?  
Come and visit me sometimes, then, if you're moving out. Tell me how Romano's doing._

_Why does the door always shut too soon?  
If it stayed open for a just while longer, I might've told you I love you._

_My love, why do you turn your back on me so easily?  
I would give my soul to see your eyes so warm again. _

_Come back to me.  
I'll be in the piano room. _

_Waiting._

For days at a time sonatas might be his only companion, his sustenance and entertainment all at once. Save for the quiet heels that clacked to the door every so often. About once an hour, he would hear the click of three inches on wood. The clicks would echo up the hallway, faintly audible over the tones of the piano. They would pause at the doorway. Restart. And fade away into the distance.

The music rang in his ears, starting soft and sweet, before descending into melancholy and cutting off altogether, most likely on a crescendo of discord as his forehead rested on the piano keys. Why did pianos always seem to insist on grinning? They had the most ugly smile, Roderich thought. Full of black gaps and almost grotesquely wide.

Spain used to love his piano playing.

Six days after Spain walked out, although their divorce was yet to come, a hand fell on his shoulder. Roderich did not look up. The strange fuzzy shapes created by pressing his forehead against the piano so one of his glasses' lenses was pressed hard against his eyeball and the other was halfway down his face were far more interesting.

There was a soft clink as a plate of something was placed on the piano surface – normally he would have a hissy fit, but the blurry shapes were distracting him from the dull weight at the base of his heart and… Never mind. He couldn't be bothered to snap at the warm hand anyway. It was the first human contact he'd had in a couple of years at least, and he wasn't complaining.

It stayed on his shoulder for another minute before he heard the distinct sound of heels clacking off into the distance. He lifted his head and watched the skirts of Hungary's dress bob as she walked off into the distance, head slightly bowed.

Hungary's eyes were like jade. Perhaps the outside of a lime. They had too much yellow to be truly emerald, and were not dark enough for moss. He saw those eyes darken in battle rage, soften in pity for him, glow triumphantly. But he never saw them quite as soft or as tender as when he chased after her down the hall and grabbed her arm. She turned and looked at him, those green eyes widened in mild shock, and he realised he didn't exactly have a reason for chasing her. "Erm… that is…" He took a quick breath. Regained his composure. "Thank you for bringing me food. That was very considerate of you. And thank you for the military support, I really do appreciate it." Hungary's face was lit by a soft half-smile. Her eyes were kindly, if a little pitying.  
"Your glasses are crooked, Mr Austria." Roderich flushed a delicate pink, hastily righting them. She walked off, shaking her head a little. "Madam Hungary?" He called after her quietly. She glanced back, a little curiosity on her face. "I would rather you called me Roderich."

His eyes slipped to the side slightly awkwardly. He wasn't quite sure what had brought it on, and apparently neither was Hungary. "Oh… Then I will, Mr- Roderich." Roderich nodded his head curtly, still a little pink. He paused, as if waiting. Another odd look was gifted to Roderich. They simultaneously turned and left.

Their union happened shortly after that. It was not an obvious coupling to begin with. The sweeping and other menial tasks bored and frustrated Hungary. The longing gazes forest-wards stopped eventually. She stopped going hunting with Prussia. But later, he found her slumped against a wall outside, broom next to her, bow on the other side. A tree a fair distance away had six arrows in it: five of them were split down the middle by the one proceeding it. Her shoulders were shaking. He never quite knew what to do when she became like this. She seemed too untouchable, like a bomb that might go off if he got too close. And then who knows what might get destroyed?

A love like this he had never felt before. He had loved Spain, yes, but his love for Hungary went above and beyond that. He wanted to keep her in a glass case and look at her forever. He composed trembling pieces of pure joy at her presence on the piano, unaware of the sharp green eyes watching with a mixture of wariness and adoration behind them. He just finished the last note of his latest piece, and it still rang in the room. Heels as before clicked up behind him and a hand was once again on his shoulder. He started at it, flinching as his violet eyes met incomparable green. "Madam Hungary, I realised not you were there, please forgive me." She smiled softly, having recently realised his airs and graces were just disguises for his deep insecurity. He was a miser in Lords' clothing and hoping desperately not to be found out.

Roderich didn't think his heart had ever soared so high as when she intoned, "Please… Roderich. I'd rather you call me Elizabeta." Her smile was teasing and kindly, and it was shocking how attached to her he felt.

They were foolishly, passionately in love. Elizabeta almost never longed for forests and arrows, for horses and shocking red eyes that burnt your soul. She was so happy with calm violets that pierced through it instead. Roderich was exultant beyond belief: at last he had found someone to fill the space in his heart, who would return his love wholeheartedly. This woman of the wilderness had consented to be with him, to live in his house, rather than go hunting and roaming and fighting with a dangerous albino who frequented their garden like the personal embodiment of her temptation. She sent him away without as much as a fifth glance back. With the words, "No, Gil. I have finally become meek." To Roderich, Elizabeta and Gilbert all it sounded like she was convincing herself more than Gilbert. And of course, the hurt in Gilbert's eyes did not touch her at all. Because Roderich had won. He had stolen her away from him.

Their most tranquil, perfect moments were sharing a stool on the piano in the front room. Roderich would play, and she would sit and listen. And in those times, she would think to herself, 'Perhaps they are worth it, these sacrifices I have made.' For a few fleeting moments, the call of the wild would be drowned out by notes of Mozart, or Beethoven. For a few fleeting moments, violet eyes were all she needed.

So after World War One, when the League of Nations, that smug, superior victors' club, forced their divorce and robbed them of their Empire, Roderich fumed at them, filled with hatred. He ignored that in his memories of the war Elizabeta looked more happy than she had in years when she was shoulder to shoulder with Gilbert (among other allies, but she mostly seemed to be with Gilbert), amongst blood and mud. Her eyes were alight in a way he only glimpsed before their relationship. Before she became meek.

The moment his heart snapped in two was after the dissolution of the Empire was formalised in 1920. She came to him on the night, in his piano room (for it was only truly his), and kissed him sweetly on the lips. Spoken in hushed tones, almost furtive, she told him, "I think this is best. For the both of us. I love you, Roderich, but I feel… caged in your big, empty house. Since Italy left, I just don't feel at home. Well, I feel less not at home than usual, if that makes sense." She sighed and pressed her hands to her forehead. "I just… don't think our relationship will outlive our empire. I don't feel free. I love fighting for you, I love being useful like that. Sweeping and doing the dishes? Not my thing, so much." Roderich's brain whirred, trying to decipher what her words meant.  
"So you don't want to be with me anymore?" Elizabeta winced at the bluntness, but Roderich felt no need to mince his words.  
"I am not free, with you. I always… wanted to go out on my horse, or practice archery, or to go hunting with Gil… But it felt like betraying you, somehow, betraying your regal lifestyle."

Roderich felt cold. He could not show hurt, or how much this truly affected him. A weight upon his back settled, causing a dull ache and a slight, unconscious hunching of his shoulders. "So will you return to him then?"

Green eyes strobed a few times, eyelids blinking, as she tried to work out who 'him' was. "Gilbert. No. I can't… be with either of you anymore. I love him like a brother, and hate him like one too. He was my first love, but… But I have moved on now. We are friends and nothing more. Dating him would just be weird. As for you, Roderich. I love you. I really do. But this relationship is bad for me. As much as I love to be adored," a small smirk, "I am not meant to be caged, and if I am a bird then I do not appreciate having my wings clipped. I can't love you fully like this, and I don't think you love me so much as love to love me. Love that someone like me loves you." She nodded, once, as if to confirm what she was saying.

The click of heels on a wood floor had never seemed such a lonely sound.

And his house was just that again. His house.

Arthur entered his life as a mutual secret. The first time violet met forest green he was in his carriage, travelling a small road through a forest, on his way to finalise the terms of the Anglo-Austrian alliance in the War of the Austrian succession. It was late November and dark, so he found it hard to see out of the carriage. The view was dominated by his own reflection. However he could catch glimpses of what lay beyond the ornate carriage window. Every so often, he thought he saw a large black shape darting between the trees, a flash of a shadow. He steeled himself and told his imagination to damn well shape up or ship out.

His worst fears were realised when the black… shape cut across his path, causing the horses to rear up, the driver to panic and the carriage to come to a shuddering halt. Hooves were heard moving slowly around to the window, and was that a whimper from the coachman? Roderich's heart beat too hard for him to tell. The carriage door opened, and why did these useless things only latch? A pale face, only nose and eyes visible, left uncovered by black scarf, mask, and hat smirked down at him. Roderich had seen too many sneering eyes not to realise this man was smirking. He noticed that a lock of sandy blond hair, that looked like it might be spiky if part of a group, hung down over his mask out of his tri-corn hat in a way that looked distinctly contrived. Two feathers, one white and one black, stuck out of the side of his mask.

An ornate pistol was drawn from a black leather holster at the waist. Taking in the whole of the man, and his horse, black seemed to be a theme to Roderich. Black horse, black saddle and saddlebags. Black jodhpurs in black knee boots. Black leather gloves cutting off just before the wrist and of course the black hat, eye mask and scarf. There was a brief break in a sort of loose white pirate shirt, ruffled and sloppily laced at the front to reveal the collarbones and most of the chest. A black velvet waistcoat lay on top of this, though.

A cut-glass English accent uttered the words: "Stand and deliver, your money or your life." Dazzling emerald eyes shone out through his mask that barely shaded them. It was almost as if the highwayman did not quite want to conceal who he was.

_Those eyes remind me of Elizabeta._ The thought ran through his head before he could stop it.

He was brought back to the moment by the cocking of the pistol in the man's hand. "Come along, my dear, you look wealthy enough. Surely you can spare, oh, I don't know, everything you're carrying?" His voice screamed arrogance, even though Roderich knew he could overpower a mere human such as him within an instant if it weren't for the gun.

_That attitude reminds me of Gilbert. _His mind grumbled instantly.

The eyes flashed behind his mask, and he contorted his body so his back was nearly entirely in the carriage. One hand clung to the doorway and the other held the gun just below Roderich's chin; only his legs were still wrapped around the horse. They were practically nose to nose. Their breaths mingled. "I don't appreciate being kept waiting, specs. I suggest you begin handing over what you have." The noble nation exhaled heavily through his nose at the ridiculous nickname.

Roderich kept his mouth glued shut but handed over the small bag of coins he kept for emergencies. The man's face darkened. "I find this all terribly wearisome, my dear. You have such pretty eyes. It would be such a shame to see them permanently dimmed. If this is all the money you have, I want jewellery, spectacle chains, rings. Anything that sparkles or it'll be the worse for you." Roderich desperately hoped his cravat hid the flash of his wedding ring on a gold chain, but handed over his diamond cravat pin and matching brooch, pocket watch, and a couple of rings that weren't really worth much. He decided to ignore the comment about pretty eyes; he wasn't exactly sure what to make of it. He had never seen a man who was not a nation flirt so openly with another man before.

_Perhaps he is… No, preposterous, a nation robbing from another nation would be a declaration of war._

The man seemed satisfied for a second, before a devious look appeared on his face. He trailed a hand up Roderich's chest and felt his prey's body stiffen up. He moved it up to caress the nation's neck, before running a finger down across the collarbone, under the cravat. Roderich was still mesmerised. Finding his prize, the highwayman wrapped his hand around the chain that covertly adorned the nation's neck. He never broke eye contact as he snapped the chain off from its moorings. He graced his victim with a wink and "I have an eagle eye for spotting golden things, my dear." His body snapped back like a spring to being upright on his horse. "Much obliged, sir." His voice was a mockery of politeness; he even tipped his hat, revealing a few more wild blonde strands of hair.

_So careless. I suppose even if they knew what he looked like the police couldn't do anything._

"The Magpie, at your service." He bowed deeply, one hand on his hat, before galloping off into the night.

_Stupid pseudonym. Explains the feathers in his mask, I suppose._

Slightly shell-shocked, carriage and occupants rolled on to England's abode.

Which happened to be a castle. _Such wasteful extravagance. He must be extraordinarily arrogant to think himself worthy of such grandeur._

He did not see the man for another fifteen minutes from arriving. He passed a multitude of gatemen, footmen, serving ladies, chaperones and finally a rather wizened butler who led him on a walk to what appeared to be the innermost point of the castle, considering it took him about five minutes just to get there. By the time he got there he could have sworn he had been through a particular corridor at least four times, and had absolutely no idea where he was.

_He's trying to disorient me, put me on the back foot._

_We shall see about that._

"It is this room, I believe?" He indicated a pair of grand double doors and the butler nodded. "Then you may leave me here until I depart."

Mustering as much confidence as he could, he swept into the room announcing "I do not know the reason for having your butler lead me on a wild goose chase tour of the castle, but I would like to get these negotiations out of the way as soon as possible." He nearly couldn't finish his sentence as he noticed that, slouched diabolically on a throne at the end of a ridiculously long dining table, was the British Empire himself.

And he had the exact same eyes as the highwayman.

A lock of blond hair fell over one eye, separate from the rest of an unkempt mop of hair. It looked distinctly contrived.

The rest of him passed suspicion. Almost.

True, he wore an ornate red velvet jacket with gold brocade on the lapels, and cream and brown leather riding jodhpurs under brown, leather, slightly heeled knee length boots. But under that coat, for all its ruffles the shirt was loose and plain cotton, laced to show just a little too much torso to be considered acceptable. Roderich narrowed his eyes at the man. Somehow he doubted 'acceptable' was high on his list of priorities.

At first glance the Empire was blank faced, but, but. There was a distinctly mocking tilt to his head, and the way he slouched in his chair, cheekbone on fist, elbow on armrest, left foot on right thigh, suggested little respect for the nobleman nation before him. A small smile threatened to melt onto his face. His expression was far too innocent. The fingers on his other hand drummed the corresponding armrest.

He was daring Roderich to challenge him.

_Oh, he's good. The coachman didn't get a proper look at him, and short of ransacking his house I have no way of finding evidence it was him. It would be my word against his, and I didn't even see his face. What do I have to go on? Green eyes and a lock of blonde hair._

Roderich smiled back, too pleasantly. "Shall we get to it then?" He watched the other's eyes widen, and then he smiled. Pleasantly, of course.  
"Naturally, Mr Austria." He indicated the seat at the other end of the ridiculously long dining table. The stone room they were in was strangely bare save for an incongruous, and enormous, crystal chandelier, and the throne, other chair, and table. Long, arching stained-glass windows, tops resting not a foot from the nigh on invisibly high ceiling, cast a multi-coloured light in the room, causing the other's eyes to flicker with blue, yellow and purple-pink.

The whole talk was heavy with the unshared-shared experience they had. The Empire's smile might've said 'I know something you don't,' if Roderich didn't know that England knew he knew, and that he knew that too. Roderich confused himself thinking about it.

England left the talk with considerably more respect for Roderich than when he arrived. Roderich decided the strange atmosphere was worth it in the end.

Their relationship was one of dry, casual mockery. Roderich would mock England's cookery, England would mock his uptightness (these were his pre-gentleman days. The first gentleman, as he referred to himself, tongue in cheek, would never cease to wonder at how quickly people forget them.) It was an alliance of convenience, and Roderich was fully in his comfort zone: no feelings here to fuck things up. He did occasionally stop to wonder at the sharp coolness of those eyes, like dew on pine. But relationship-wise his attention was elsewhere.

As the alliance soured, and Britain got closer and closer to Prussia (_but they are just made for each other, arrogant maniacs_) and Roderich realised he was only really in it at all to challenge France, or whenever else it suited him, they grew more and more distant. When England deserted him to 'keep the balance of power' he didn't really care – it would have been nice to have some assistance but… Between Spain and Hungary his attention was entirely diverted (although he reserved the right to talk shit about England behind his back.)

He began to admire Arthur in the Second World War. As an empire, a flourishing one, he had been strong and terrifying, almost invincible. Yet, there was something so much more fascinating about him as he unravelled. England's determination was astounding: France had surrendered; China was of no help whatever, being too busy fighting Japan. Yet Britain, little Britain alone in Europe against the many allies of the Axis, kept fighting. He never capitulated, even when it looked like America might not join and hope was lost. That fearful obstinacy had made countries fall at his feet. Truly, he was not a quitter, and Roderich admired that.

But he really fell for Arthur, after having been sent roses for years, at a conference in the mid-eighties, in some dreadful concrete tower block that was as ugly as it was soulless. England had spent the first half almost solidly yelling at France or America, and looked very stressed. This was fairly usual. However unusually, instead of waiting for everyone to leave, he dashed out of the conference as fast as possible. Roderich, a little curious now, followed him cautiously. Instinct told him to duck into a doorway when Arthur glanced left then right, before opening an inconspicuous door and heading… up the stairs?

_But we're on the top floor._

His curiosity got the better of him and he followed suit. A melody on an electric guitar, each note long drawn-out and mournful. Roderich started as he realised that unceremoniously dumped at the top of the stairs were a pair of shoes and socks, a shirt and a tie and a tweed jacket. Cautiously, not exactly knowing what to expect, he padded onto the roof, where Arthur waited unwitting of his presence. The island nation was curled up in a rather large, silver pipe protruding in a sort of r-shape from the floor, as if in a pod chair. He cradled a red-and-white guitar, plugged into a small amp. A metal box with a bright yellow and black 'Danger of Death by Electrocution' sticker on it was open, revealing a socket into which the amp was plugged. It looked large enough to fit the guitar and amp in. Roderich guesses that must be the storage space as no-one had seen him carry the instruments in.

_He plays really beautifully._ Roderich thought he was by far the most musically gifted of the nations, but this was rather spectacular.

Arthur noticed him and started. His eyes widened and he stuttered "Don't- I'm supposed to have… left this all behind. Got a handle on m'self, y'know? Don't tell anyone." Roderich knew he was referring to punk days, empire days, pirate days, all of it.

But his mind turned to a young man with incredible green eyes who called himself 'The Magpie'. A knowing smile formed on his face as he leant against the stairwell doorway.

"Have I ever?"

And Arthur grinned such an inclusive grin, and his eyes were so alight with the nudge-wink laughter of an in-joke, and so very _green_, that Roderich felt his heart melt on the spot. He kept his face in its same expression, though.

There was a snap and a click, and something golden was chucked in his direction. It was reflexively caught by the pianist on the roof. His wedding ring, taken long ago. He was filled with confusion. How did Arthur know he would come?  
He was distracted by a small chuckle.

"I didn't know you would find me, if you were wondering. It's the last little souvenir I carry around with me, of those days." His smile turned devious: "Besides… how can you use it against me now anyway?"

Austria could only think to say "Thank you" and turn on his heel. Before he could say something stupid, something along the lines of "Oh, you're good."

The first time he was gifted a rose by Arthur, a purple, almost violet rose, (he believed it to be a 'reine de violette' rose) was the day after Elizabeta left him, in 1920.

Black ribbon attached a small note to the rose.

'I'm sorry. I know you loved her. And I know how it hurts.  
Sorry about being an arse during the Anglo-Austrian alliance. Empires are often genetically predisposed to being something of a twat. I was too self-involved at that time.

So, I'm probably going to send you a rose every year on this day from now on. Deal with it, pretty eyes.

Yours,  
Arthur Kirkland.'

Dry laughter escaped his throat at the last line. As close to a confession of the crime as he would probably ever get, and what could he do with it?

On that day, while a thousand needles pierced their way through his soul, Roderich sat on the step and thought of green eyes, and the hole in his heart yet to be filled.

..:.:.:.]**Austria**[.:.:.:..

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**The melody is the solo from 'Please, please, please let me get what I want' by The Smiths, in my head. Feel free to imagine it however you like.**

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